


Firsts

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Seraphim snuggle times and wings. I like my Castiel served up super sweet on Sundays [and always].





	Firsts

At first, Castiel didn’t comprehend the point of being cuddled. The act, however intimate in nearness, served no overt biological drive toward procreation, nor did it directly stimulate the body’s pleasure centers – sins of the flesh something the vessel, if not always the angel within, understood intuitively and with an often rapacious demand. Not that he would ever deny you anything in his power to fulfill, especially so superficially simple a request as your desire to innocently hold him for a while after he had a particularly rough day amid the perpetual run of mostly bad luck defining his earthly existence since the fall. After all, he’d instinctually done the same for you time and again and this was merely you attempting to return the favor. Humans alone, he endearingly believed, required these displays of devoted protection, care, and comfort to feel secure. Celestial wavelengths of light, _fierce_ not frail, he thought existed far above benefiting from such tenderness.

And so, stiff muscles yielding to the insistent pull and tug of your hands guiding him nearer, you saw a wave of skepticism flash in the flummoxed furrow of his features as you drew him against your chest and refused to let go until the fixed rigidity began to flee his form. Slowly then, small shudders relaying his shattering resistance, he succumbed, melting into the soothing softness of your embrace. Like so many of the angel’s firsts living alongside humanity and loving you, the benefit of cuddling seemed elusory only _at first_. 

Now, situated on the surprisingly cozy for a cheap motel room king-sized oasis of a bed, sinking sun setting the closed curtains aglow in a fiery orange, Sam and Dean’s brotherly antic arguments and boisterous laughter occasionally booming through the neighboring wall, louder the deeper into the lager they swim, back supported by the headboard and a pile of pillows, the angel’s weary head rests in your lap.

He killed a rogue brother today to save you all; hew the heretic threatening his chosen family clean through the heart to perish in a burst of blazing white, charred shadow of the fallen’s wingspan etched into the concrete floor of the warehouse. Despite the love lost between Castiel and his kin, with so few of his kind remaining, the loss weighs heavy on him even in the face of necessity. Here, in your touch, he chases solace.

Your fingers lazily tangle through chestnut locks, following tamed curls to their ends and tracing the glaze of grey glinting at his temples. Over and over you repeat the pacifying pattern, and it’s clear from the relaxed parting of perfectly plump pink lips and the lashes loosely shuttering the damp shine of his eyes, he appreciates completely the _why_ of cuddling. Removing your tactile reassurance for a moment, you flip the page of the lore book you read which is conveniently perched on his chest.

He catches you by the wrist on return, pressing a ticklish trail of kisses to the delicate expanse along the inside of the captured limb from thumb to crook of elbow and back until a pleasing cascade of laughter spills from the smile broadening your cheeks. Sitting suddenly upright, leather bound tome bouncing to the bed, he slots his mouth to yours to savor the sweetness of the sound on his tongue.

Your fingers again tease into his hair, scrabbling over scalp to clasp the nape of his neck, nails digging to remind him of the unfortunate mortal affliction you suffer necessitating the occasional gasp of oxygen.

He relents his affection to tuck his scruff-prickled chin at the hollow cushion of your collarbone. As your ribcage rises and falls, racing heart returning to a steady rhythm, he murmurs, breath sultry on your skin, “Would you do something for me, my love?” It’s a something he wanted to ask you to do long ago when you first surrendered your body to his vessel and your soul to his celestial heart, and yet part of him – the same part that struggled with the notion of needing or even meriting comfort – doubted he deserved the deepest contentment of all.

Hooking a finger beneath his square jaw, you tilt his gaze up to meet yours, soft and sincere, answering without hesitation. “Anything, angel,” you exhale, a breathless beaming tone.

He nods, a choked gulp of gratitude tightening his throat. He trusts you. Believes _you_ , although he doubts himself still.

You watch as moves to sit on the edge of the mattress. Watch and wonder what it is he wants of you as he slips the loosened knot of his blue tie over his head, pedantically unbuttons his white shirt, and shrugs the cuddle-wrinkled garment off broad shoulders. You watch the uncertainty tensely ripple the muscles of his shoulder blades as he sits there, hands flexing and balling into fists, not saying a word.

“Castiel, whatever it is I-”

He turns then, winds an arm about your waist, and eases you against the pillows in a single fluid movement. Blue spark of grace glowing in his gaze, balancing the bulk of his body above you with his elbows, he brushes trembling lips to each of your eyelids, compelling them to close.

Brilliant light penetrates the sheer skin swathing your eyes. A gale of electric petrichor-laced wind rouses the room. Holding your breath, you hear a strange dry scrape and rustle surrounding you; a blanket of heat closes in, too, on all sides.

Shifting his weight to one side to settle half on you half on his stomach, arm draped across your waist, one leg twined between yours, Castiel snuggles you and waits.

When you finally blink, silvery iridescent black wings, simultaneously corporal and ethereal in solidity, no less stunning for the damage and sparseness dimming and scarring them in spots, fill your field of vision and curve within the confines of the walls. Lifting curious and loving fingers toward the nearest, the feathery limb thrusts downward into your open palm, entirely solid despite its opacity, seeking the comforting temptation of your caress. Stunned smile wreathing your mouth, you submerge your fingers into the silken soft plumes.

Truly feeling your touch for the first time, without the barrier of his vessel, the seraph beside you sighs – a reverberant and guttural growl of pure contentment.


End file.
